This is not a time for fully formed stories.
It would be the wrong sort of push - the kind they tell you to avoid in yoga class - to try to conjure a thesis statement, supporting details, and a compelling conclusion.
(I can’t say that the above is actually my formula for crafting a newsletter, but I have been discussing essay formats with my fourteen year-old. And, as much as we must unlearn all those stilted writing rubrics, there’s still something to be said for “tell them when you gonna tell ‘em, tell em why it matters, and then tell ‘em what you told ‘em one last time.”)
Instead, it is a time for reading deeply. It’s a time to stay on the meditation cushion long after the final gong. It is a time to hold counsel with trees and birds who make their home in the frozen air.
And so, I will spare both myself and you my fumbling attempts at meaning making. Instead, I will devote this newsletter to a handful of utterly unnewsworthy news about a stretch of cold January in this mythworking writer’s life.
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